My head shot up from the book I’d fallen asleep reading. I nudged the phone awake that sat on the old wooden desk and glanced out the window. It was still dark, and the phone read three after midnight. My most familiar nightmare drenched me in sweat. My hands shivered at the memory. Dad didn’t deserve to die like that.

He was young, less than forty when he passed from some unknown ailment the doctors suspected of being a genetic disorder. He wasted away in the hospital for three years before he died. I try to remember him when he was healthy, but I can’t forget the image of his last days, gaunt and gasping for breath on a hospital bed.

In his last moments of life he had signaled me closer, grabbed my shirt in a frail fist and told me I’d survive, I had plenty of time and that I should live with honor but to do what needed to be done. I still do not know what he meant by it.

I looked down at the book I had been reading earlier in the evening. It was about the width and length of my forearm. The cover was intricately carved from wood and wrapped in black leather. My Mother claimed the original text was over four thousand years old. I was translating and editing the old Cuneiform script from Akkadian to something our customers might actually want to purchase, English. It had taken me over a month to complete the translation. I was just about finished with the editing to make it more readable for the average American interested in the occult. This book seemed to cover everything from how to erect proper shrines for several gods to rituals for some very interesting magic.

I knew it was all nonsense, but it was interesting enough to spend all of my teenage years and my early twenties working for my mother in her bookshop.

I closed the enormous book and the notebook laying next to it and found a place for it on one of the many bookshelves that packed the room we used for editing. After slipping the notebook inside my pocket, I thought about heading to my room, but decided against it. I knew I wouldn’t be getting any good sleep tonight, so I walked downstairs to finish some chores in the store that needed doing before we opened in the morning.

Unsurprisingly, my mother was awake and cos-playing in a scarlet cloak. Though I had never seen this outfit before, it was a common occurrence. When I was younger, I assumed she dressed up for the customers, but later in life I realized she really just felt more comfortable in antiquated garments. What I found surprising were the two bags she had next to her on the floor. One was a big hiking pack that looked to be packed full and ready for a long trip. The second was a long duffel bag that was still unzipped. She reached out, grabbed a book off of a shelf that I considered pure fiction and looked up to see me. Her eyes were red, and she looked unsteady. As soon as she met my eyes, she looked away.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” I reached out and placed my hand on her shoulder, and she covered mine with hers.

She stayed silent for a long couple of seconds and finally spoke. “Something happened much sooner than expected.” She glanced back up and attempted an excited smile. “You’re going on a trip! It should be fu.. err interesting.” She released the white knuckled grip she had on the book and shoved it into the duffel.

It did actually sound kind of interesting. I hadn’t been over ten miles from the shop in almost a decade. I put a break on my curiosity and asked, “What has happened and where are we going?”

She put her hand on her chin and looked up, deciding on what to tell me. “I’m not going anywhere, unfortunately. Someone has to be here to run the shop, plus this method of travel requires that I stay behind. The ‘where’ is a surprise. The stars have aligned. You have a tiny window of opportunity. I won’t allow you to end up like your father.”

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My mouth opened to voice my objection, but she forestalled me with a raised hand. “We don’t have time for any more questions. I’ve already packed your bags. Bring them up to the roof.” I threw up my hands in exasperation and my mother hurried off upstairs.

Bending down to zip up the bag, I saw a glint of steel from inside. Parting the bag revealed a long saber polished to a mirror shine. I pulled the handle out from under a book and drew the sword a few inches out of its sheath. I see Damon Heliot XI, my father’s name engraved on the spine of the blade.

I stuffed it back in, closed the bag and climbed the two flights of stairs to the roof. The door was a struggle to open with my hands full, but I got the knob turned enough to push the door open in the cramped area at the top of the stairs. I stepped out onto the decked roof and started wondering why the hell I was hauling luggage onto the roof like we owned a helicopter. My mother had finally gone completely insane.

I looked up into the sky. The air was still and clouds blocked out the stars. Mom Skipped between tiki torches, lighting a circle of twelve before she focused on me and grinned. “Come, set the bags in the center and avoid smearing the paint.” She said, gesturing with an open hand toward the art painted on the ground. To the side, there was a small table and chair holding a laptop and a small projector. I could see what looked like a star chart on the screen.

The projector pointed down toward the design she had painted on the ground. It seemed like cheating, but he would not complain. The mural looked like a star chart divided by intersecting triangles of a variety of sizes inside a large circle. The familiar symbols of Nyx were arranged in a polar array along the perimeter. I had seen ritual diagrams in books like this before and might have even been able to draw something similar.

On my way to the center of the circle, I passed a mason jar with what looked like partially coagulated blood. The reds, browns and black of the "paint" made more sense. “Are you intentionally this creepy, or does it just come naturally to you?” I asked honestly, with a hint of irritation.

“Of course it comes naturally, it's genetic. You should have seen the look on his face while acquiring it,” she said, chuckling while covering her mouth with a cupped hand. When she finished, a few spots of blood covered her chin. I rolled my eyes and gave a quick prayer to the relevant goddess Nyx that this morning didn’t turn out like a heavily foreshadowed horror.

“Do you recognize what this does?”

I had a good idea. The torches reflected off the parts of the diagram that were still wet as I turned, surveying her work from the center. “It moves things, but all the examples I’ve seen are on a much smaller scale using geographical landmarks.”

“Good, and do you recall its most important limitation?”

I could. They always stated it as a warning. “Never move a living being.”

“Correct.” My mother stepped close and slapped me on the shoulder, fiddling with something inside her cloak.

“Mom, do we really have to play scary cultists now? I’m looking forward to this trip, but you’re acting crazier than usual and I would consider that quite the—”

A stinging pain interrupts my chiding. I look down to see a long ornate dagger already halfway to the hilt inside me.

It confused me more than anything.

The golden blade slid in just under my fourth rib. It scraped against my sternum and angled directly into my heart. The dagger was hilt deep in my chest. My mother’s hand trembled as she let go. She stretched up on her toes and kissed my forehead like I was five and she was putting me to sleep.

“See you soon.” As she raised her bloodied hands, the torches flared and fizzled into darkness. The circle glowed a dull pastel blue and slowly rose from the floor. By the time it was waist high, it was blindingly white and streaked black specs.

That was the moment I died.